Stella Mia Read Online Free

efforts are rarely successful.
    Even as young as three and four years old, I felt intimidated. Perhaps because Papá rarely said a kind word to my mother or me. Sometimes, he would surprise me by talking to me about how many sardines he had caught in a day. My father is a fisherman, primarily of sardines, which are abundant in the waters surrounding Sicily. I would take advantage of these few instances and engage him in the conversation, acting excited about the large catch of fish he’d caught and asking questions. He seemed pleased that I was interested. But there were few moments like these.
    I was ten years old when my brother Enzo was born. My father was the happiest I’d ever seen him, and he remained in good spirits for several months afterward. My mother had had several miscarriages and two children who died shortly after birth before she had Enzo, Carlotta, and Pietro; hence, the large age difference between me and my siblings. Each of the miscarriages and the two babies who died had been boys. When I saw how elated Papá was after Enzo’s birth, I began to suspect he hated me because up until that point I had been the only baby who had survived and grown. But I wasn’t the boy he wanted. Yet just when I thought I understood my father’s actions, he resumed hitting me when Enzo was six months old. And as I approached adolescence, his abuse got worse. After one grueling beating, I asked my mother why Papá hit us so much. She merely shrugged her shoulders and said, “It’s his nature. It’s simply who he is.”
    On my fourteenth birthday, Mama gave me a beautiful sundress she’d sewn. It was a rich emerald-green hue that complemented my auburn hair perfectly. I never loved anything I owned as much I loved that dress. A week later, I came home from buying a few groceries Mama needed for dinner that night. When my father saw me, he demanded I take off the dress. As I walked by him to head to my room to do as he ordered, he pulled me toward him by my braid.
    â€œIf I ever catch you again wearing something so suggestive, I’ll cut off all of your hair.”
    And then he grabbed the hem of my dress and tore it with his hands.
    â€œNo!” I screamed. But it was too late. My beautiful dress was ruined. I glanced at Mama who was standing behind us in the kitchen. Her face looked pained. No doubt she was thinking of all the hours she had put into making my dress. And I’m certain my father’s cruel act of destroying my dress was not just meant to hurt me, but also my mother. From that day forward, my dislike of him grew to an intense hatred.
    Taking these late night walks to the beach could be the death of me if my father ever found out, but I don’t care. I used to be terrified of him, but I am growing numb to his beatings and to the fear that he might kill me one day. Tears fill my eyes as I think about how I actually welcome death sometimes. At least then, I would finally be free of him.
    I reach my favorite spot on the beach, where several immense boulders sit close to the water’s edge. Climbing on top of one, I let my legs dangle off the edge. Staring out across the ocean, I fix my gaze once more on Vulcano. Maybe someday I will be daring enough to try and swim all the way there, and my father would never find me—that is if I don’t die first from exhaustion. Sighing, I lie down on my back and stare at the stars once more, getting lost in all their twinkling lights. I close my eyes and listen to the soothing sound of the waves crashing against the shore.
    Rain is falling down on me, but the pellets feel unusually heavy and sharp. Maybe it’s hailing. Suddenly a sharp pain throbs throughout my head. I wake up and see pebbles and small rocks bouncing off my chest. As I sit up, my heart drops when I see my father is the one hurling the rocks at me.
    â€œBrutta puttana! Ti ucciderò! Ti ucciderò!” Papá screams. His eyes look